


7 % is no Solution

by Piplover



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Gen, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:31:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piplover/pseuds/Piplover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes doesn’t need Watson. Not at all. Not even a little bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	7 % is no Solution

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to Soldier's Heart, and would not be possible without the aide of the lovely Enkiduts, who held my hand and forced me to continue, even when it was hard. Thank you.

    Sherlock Holmes was angry.  No, he was beyond angry.  He was furious.  He was livid, and found himself sputtering even in his own thoughts.    
  
    A woman dead, her child orphaned, and Detective fucking Lestrade wondering what the hell happened.    
  
    Well, so was Holmes.  Or he had been, until his massive brain had caught up with him and he realized - in one of those bursts of brilliance which hurt as much as they illuminated - that he had cocked up.    
  
    He had, against his better judgment and despite himself, come to rely on John Watson.  Had come to think of himself as part of a pair instead of relying solely on his own merits and actions.  
  
    And because he had done so, a woman was dead, and it was his fault.  His fault he had taken Watson’s presence for granted and hadn’t split his attention accordingly.  He had come to rely too much on the other man to be in places he could not, to halve the information gathering.    
  
    And now Watson was married, he realized that he would have to remedy the situation immediately.    
  
***  
  
    He had forgotten the necessity of pacing himself better when he was alone.  Too many nights, even for him, of sleepless ponderings, and too little food had left his reflexes slow.  Too slow to stop the blow from landing from behind, too slow to ward off the fists and boots.    
  
    Too slow to escape.    
  
***  
  
    It had been easy, at first.  Watson was busy with his surgery, tired from long days spent treating mild colds and upset stomachs.  His free nights were being taken over by spending time with his new wife and settling into his house.   It had been so very easy to simply not send a telegram.  To race out into the late afternoon sun and not return until nearly dawn.    
  
    It had hurt in the beginning.  Leaving Watson behind had felt like leaving an important piece of the puzzle undone.  But he had steeled himself against the empty spot beside him, ignored the questioning looks Lestrade sent his way and the innocent questions Gregson asked.    
  
    All that mattered was the work.  In the end, that was all that Sherlock Holmes was, after all.    
  
***  
  
    After three weeks of working on his own again it had become easier, a falling back into old patterns, before Watson had entered his life.    
  
    Of course, that was when the doctor had taken a notice to the change and tried to confront him about it.   
  
    “Holmes?”  
  
    Watson’s voice had called softly into his room, pulling him from the half doze he had finally succumbed to after three days without sleep.    
  
    “Hmph?” He buried his head deeper into the pillow, inhaling laundry soap and sweat.   
  
    “Lestrade sent a telegram.  He wanted to make sure you were all right, since he hasn’t heard back from you.  What’s going on?”    
  
    Holmes turned onto his side, so his back was to the door.   
  
    “I’m tired, that’s what’s happening,” he said, eyes tightly shut against the image that filled his mind’s eye.  Watson had always been so damnably curious and patient.  “I’ve been three days without sleep, Watson. Much as I appreciate you stopping  by, kindly see yourself out so I may rest.”  
  
    He knew the words hurt.  That had been the goal. John Watson was not a man easily deterred when he sensed that something was amiss, but Holmes being grumpy and anti-social? There was nothing new there, and Watson would leave in a huff and decide that Holmes was perfectly well if he was able to be so irascible.    
  
    “The telegram said something about a case gone awry.  If you need to talk -”  
  
    “Oh, for the love of God, Watson, go away!” Holmes yelled, curling into himself.    
  
    The words did indeed hurt, though Watson was not the only one to feel their sting.   
  
***  
  
    Such a simple miscalculation.  Two men instead of one.  An iron bar instead of empty hands.  And now Holmes was alone, prostrate on the cold cement floor which smelled of urine and decaying things, his thoughts spinning lazily as the world faded.  
  
    He wondered if Mycroft would pay for mourners, or grieve for his brother as he had lived with him; silently, the two of them alone in their own world.    
  
***  
  
    He burned the next telegram he received from Watson five days after unceremoniously kicking him out of his former abode, the words unread.    
  
    Like cauterizing a wound, the fire burned away the pain until there was nothing but ash.   
  
    That night he accepted a case from Lestrade without question or complaint, and followed the trail to an abandoned butchery.  There was only supposed to be one man standing watch, one man who could be easily overtaken.  
  
    He hadn’t even heard the footsteps behind him.  
  
***  
  
    He was a man without a heart, without the weaknesses of the human body.  With a mind great enough, the petty wants of the flesh could easily be ignored.    
  
    That is, they could be ignored until the blood which had been pumping through his veins slowly dripped onto muck covered floors, and the beating of his heart echoed in his ears, a soft rhythm which seemed to morph into the cadence of language.  
  
    _Watson.  Watson.  Watson._   
  
    He should have realized that knowing the other man would destroy him.  Even a machine would rust and break down if the intricate gears which powered it were stripped of their defensive casing.    
  
    God damn John Watson.  God damn him to hell.   
  
***  
  
    He did not dream, not in the blackness that claimed him and cradled his broken body from the shocks of transport and treatment.  He did not feel the gentle hands which stitched up torn flesh and bandaged broken bones.  He did not taste the tinctures slipped into his mouth or feel the warm tears which landed unheeded on his cheeks.    
  
    He did not feel anything, because to feel anything was to feel everything.  
  
***  
  
    When he opened his eyes, crusted at the edges with too much sleep and fever sweat, he at first thought he must be dreaming, for the familiar walls of 221B rose above him.    
  
    He shifted slightly, turning his head to take in his surroundings, not trusting his senses when he should by rights be dead.    
  
   _“It would serve Mrs. Hudson right if I am haunting her rooms,”_ he thought to himself, though he was beginning to think this was not the case.    
  
    His body ached with the kind of pain that only came from a thorough beating and several days of sickness.  When he moved to prop himself up on his elbows he could not keep the gasp from escaping.  
  
    “Son of a fucking whore!” he swore, wishing only to curl in on himself, but he feared even that instinctual movement would cause further pain, and he chose to lay very still instead, breathing shallowly through his mouth.   
  
    “Holmes?”  
  
    Of course.  Of course Watson was here.  Watching over him.  Bringing him back from the dead.  Because that was what Watson did, and God forbid the good doctor turn his back on his recalcitrant, asshole friend.    
  
    Son-of-a-bitch.  
  
    “Go away,” he panted, eyes tightly closed.    
  
    He could not bear it, the image of Watson standing in his doorway.  Taking up space that should have been empty, that had been empty for nearly two months now.    
  
    “I said go away!” he yelled, or as close to a yell as he could manage through his struggling breaths.   
  
    “No,” Watson said, his voice calm and completely unruffled.  “I’m afraid you’ll just have to put up with me a while longer, old cock.  You’ve been beaten near to death, and I won’t leave until I’m certain you’ll be around the next time I visit.”  
  
    The words felt like new blows layered over his existing bruises.  He could not suppress the frustrated growl, and finally forced his eyes open to glare at the man before him.  
  
    Watson’s skin was tinged with grey, his eyes shadowed from exhaustion, and his clothes wrinkled.  His mustache had not been properly trimmed in three days, and his chin was stubbled.  There were stains on his shirt, the first two buttons undone and no color or cuff graced his neck or wrists.    
  
    He was everything Holmes wanted, and the one thing he could not have.    
  
    “Leave me!” he bellowed, struggling to stand up, to get away from the man who had torn down all his defenses and left him stripped bare of protection before leaving him exposed.    
  
    Strong arms held him down, gentle even as they subdued his struggling.  Holmes was too angry, too broken to make sense of the words spilling from Watson’s mouth, but the prick of a needle and the sudden rush of warm dizziness stole his will to fight.   
  
    “That’s right, just relax,” Watson soothed, smoothing a lock of hair back from Holmes’ fevered brow.  “Just rest, old boy.  I’ll be right here.”  
  
    The tears which leaked from his eyes were attributed to the sickness.       
  
***  
  
    Five days he struggled against the weakness of his mind and body.  Five days he endured Watson’s hovering presence, the smell of his tobacco, the sounds of his gentle voice as he quieted Holmes’ distressed mutterings and restless fidgeting.  Five days he tasted heaven, knowing that it was only an illusion as hell bided its time.    
  
    He had known a blind man once, poor and broken and living on the streets, who could play the most sweetly heartbreaking music to ever be wrung from an instrument.  When asked by an empty headed maid where he came up with such sorrowful tunes, the man had smiled wretchedly and refused to answer.  
  
    Only after the crowd had departed and the fiddle been tucked away did the man turn his scarred, sightless eyes to Holmes.  The detective had hidden himself well in the mouth of the nearby alley, but he had no doubt the man knew he was there.   
  
    “She wanted to know how I can play such music,” the man croaked, his voice as damaged as the rest of his body as he shook his head in disbelieving wonder.  “As if a man who had been something and is now nothing can play anything else.”  
  
    On the sixth day Mrs. Watson visited, and Watson left Holmes alone in his bedroom to go greet her.  Through the half open door he could hear Mary’s delicate murmur as she spoke soothing platitudes to her husband and he apologized for his lengthy absence.  He could see, through the small crack where the door met the wall, that they were seated in the chairs before the fire.    
  
    Holmes stood shakily on legs that still trembled, braced his weakened body against the wall as he eavesdropped shamelessly.  Listened as they discussed Watson’s stay with Holmes, the state of their fucking house since the doctor had been away.  Even, God damn the woman, _doilies!_   
  
    It was too much.  Too much for one man to take.  He should have died in that warehouse, would have if John Watson wasn’t such a stubborn bastard.    
  
    He may be weak as a newborn colt, his stitches still red and swollen around the edges, but he would be damned if he stayed one more moment, listening to the sounds of domestic fucking bliss outside his door.   
  
     It was easy enough to open his window and climb out to the roof, though his left arm was broken and three of his ribs.  He had been in pain for so long that he could not remember how to function without it.  Could not, in fact, remember what it was like to wake in the morning and not wish his body would realize what his heart had long ago and just give up the fight.  
  
    The cool dusk air felt good against his heated skin, and though he wore only a nightshirt and slippers, he found the roof disgustingly easy to navigate.   No one looked up.  People were so oblivious to the world around them, to what was right over their heads and in front of their faces, he had no fear of being discovered.  Not until Watson decided to check on him, that is, and found he had disappeared.    
  
    He made it to the other side of the roof when his legs gave out and he found himself unceremoniously sat on his arse, staring at the thick clouds of smoke which billowed around him and turned the sky a dark, purplish black.    
  
    He would have killed for his pipe.    
  
***  
  
    The world spun dizzily around him as he stared into the bruised sky, trying to find  a star amongst the soot covered veil which hung over London at night.  Flat on his back, right arm flung to his side with his left crossed protectively over his chest, he was not surprised when he heard the sound of footsteps approach.   
  
    Watson did not speak as he sat beside him.  Out of the corner of his eye Holmes could see that he had not donned collar or cuff, but his shirt and waistcoat were freshly laundered.    
  
    Mary had brought a change of clothes, then.    
  
    Holmes inhaled deeply, tasted soot on his tongue and in the back of his mouth.      
  
    They did not speak to each other, but the silence was louder than either man had expected.   
  
***  
  
    Three days later and Holmes was deemed fit enough to manage on his own with only periodic check ins from Watson.  He could not bear to watch as the doctor left the sitting room, bag held tightly in his hand as he murmured parting instructions to Mrs. Hudson.   
  
    Holmes curled up on the sofa, back to the door and the horrible déjà vu of watching his only friend vanish from his life once more.    
  
    “Holmes.” Watson’s quiet voice interrupted his thoughts, though he did not turn.   
  
    A deep sigh ghosted from the entranceway and Holmes clutched the blanket tightly over his shoulders.   
  
    If John Watson wanted to part with empty platitudes and promises, then he was free to do so, but Holmes wished he would hurry the fuck up about it.    
      
    “I’ll be back in a few days to see how you’re doing,” Watson said, his voice brooking no argument.  
  
    “Yes, yes, as you wish,” Holmes snapped, laying down gingerly on his side. The divan was not very large, but it had cradled his form many times throughout the years.  “Don’t you have a wife to be getting back to?”  
  
    He did not attempt to keep the bitterness from his voice.  He was past the point of caring, of pretending.  He had known, once upon a time, what loving someone entailed, what it would cost. He had ignored the knowledge, and a woman was dead because of it.    
  
    Never again.  
  
    “Holmes.”   
  
    Watson’s voice was soft above him, where the doctor had come to stand.  Holmes refused to flinch or show his surprise.   
  
    “I know you may not believe me now, but I hope you do some day.  My getting married does not mean that our friendship is at an end, or that I am leaving you.  I wish you would understand that. “  
  
    There was so much sadness in that voice, so much wistful longing that Holmes felt his fists clench tightly beneath his blanket.    
  
    He did not answer until he heard the door close and the sound of soft, limping steps descending.   
  
    “You‘ve already left, old boy,” Holmes whispered softly into the fading light of evening.    
  
    His heart continued to beat, the steady thump and thud of blood rushing in his veins a taunting lullaby.    
      
***  
  
    _Hope is a fucking bitch._ That was the one thought that kept repeating in Holmes mind as he ascended the stairs.  It was a heartless, unrelenting bitch that coyly batted its eyes and ingratiated itself into your heart, and then it turned its back on you and left you wanting more.  It was worse than a bitch, it was a mild mannered whore!    
  
    Sitting before the fire, book open and cigarette dangling from his fingers, Watson looked up at Holmes stood in the doorway, trying to find a polite way of telling him to get the fuck out.    
  
    “You can curse at me all you like, but I’m not leaving until we get this straightened out,” Watson said calmly, closing the book with a snap and pointing toward the chair opposite him with it.    
  
    Holmes clenched his jaw at the gesture, as though Watson still lived here, still had the right to dictate what Holmes did and did not do in his own home.    
  
    Rather than sit, Holmes went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink, pointedly not making one for Watson before sitting.  
  
    “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked sweetly, taking a drink.   
  
    Watson did not answer right away, taking a long draw from his cigarette before crushing it out in the ashtray.   
  
    “Inspector Lestrade told me about the Hargrave case,” he said softly, his blue eyes soft and knowing in the dim light of the fire.    
  
    “And that has to do with what?” Holmes asked, keeping his face carefully blank.  He would not allow Watson to get to him.     
  
    Watson did not speak, only continued to stare him down, and after a few minutes Holmes finished his drink and stood to make another.    
  
    “It -”  
  
    “Do not finish that sentence if you do not wish to have my fist rammed down your throat!” Holmes bellowed, throwing the glass against the wall in a fit of sudden rage.    
  
    Shards sang through the air, while amber liquid slowly dripped down the wall.   For a long moment neither man spoke, each watching, as though mesmerized, the brandy slowly pool on the floor.     
  
    “You do not get to tell me it was not my fault, Doctor Watson,” Holmes finally growled, his voice too tight and low to be anything other.    “You gave up that right when you left me and the work.  You do not get to come into my home and tell me how to fucking feel!”    
  
    His chest felt tight, too tight for the stuttering breaths he was trying to bring in past the lump in his throat.    
  
    “You do not get to - to -”    
  
    He could not go on.    
  
    There was too much inside.  Too much pain, too much grief and anger.  He clutched at his chest with a shaking hand as he felt his legs give out, but rather than fall to the floor as he had expected strong arms wrapped around him, holding him, supporting him.    
  
    “I don’t need you!” he shouted, struggling to get away from the warmth pressed against his back even as it supported him and held him steady.    
  
    “But I need you,” Watson whispered, mustache bristling against Holmes’ ear as he clutched him tighter.  Their cheeks brushed, stubble rasping as Watson slowly lowered them both to the ground in an awkward sprawl, never releasing his hold.  “I need you.  Every day.  Every hour.  More than I will ever be able to say.”  
  
    _Hope was a fucking bitch._   She wrapped you around her finger, flirted with your desires, and then, after turning her back when the situation was close to its worst,  she would look your way once more and bat her eyes coyly.  _And you, you pathetic bastard,  you would always accept her once more._   
  
    Sherlock Holmes clung to John Watson tightly,  clung to him and sobbed in weary defeat.  He had hidden himself in disguises and shadows, had fooled all who tried to look past his defenses. But the one thing he could not, had never been able to do, was outwit himself.    
  
    “I will never leave you. I promise,” Watson swore, placing a chaste kiss to Holmes head as he continued to hold him.   
  
    “No,” Holmes agreed, allowing his weary body to slump against his friend’s steady presence.  “You will never leave me,” he added softly, the words nearly lost as he mumbled them into the fine material of Watson’s coat.   
  
_But  one day, I will leave you._  
  


End file.
